Uchiha v Haruno
by PureWaterLily
Summary: When Naruto dumps her for some big-breasted sex bot, Sakura realizes… he might be onto something there. ItaSaku. SasuIta.
**A/N:** One two three four, I declare a shipping war~

.

Fuming, Sakura types away at her keyboard.

Asshole.

Scumbag.

Dipshit.

She had been _way_ beyond his league back in high school _and_ college. Yet, who stuck by his lousy ass when he was a broke good-for-nothing. Who fed him and gave him a house, working two jobs so he can pursue his dreams. Who inspired - hell, _wrote_ \- his stories, his stupid little comics that became best-sellers _because of her_.

Her. The idiot who thought when a guy confessed he loved her, he meant it. The idiot who fell for his sweet-talks and cheap promises, even when all signs pointed the other way. The idiot who dedicated all her time, money, and youth to an insincere, two-faced liar who dumped her ass the minute he became a hit success, traded her away for - oh, and here's the real insult - some big-tits sex bot.

Well, two can play at this game.

Unlike some _fucker_ , Sakura is smart. She graduated valedictorian from a top university, a hundred credentials under her belt. With her recent promotion, she makes more than enough digits at the most prestigious biotech company on the East coast. In other words, the _dickhead_ ain't the only one who can afford a nicely-built spouse.

And this time, she's going to pick right.

Gender. Age. Weight. Height. She scrolls down to the race-ethnicity section and checks all the boxes except for one. Had enough _entitled_ _white trash_ for one lifetime, thank you. Yes, she's full on racist today, and her middle finger does not care.

The page reloads to offer a wide selection of colors. Browsing through them, she goes to the dark spectrum for hair. Can't handle any more blond _himbos_. As for eyes, albino pops up as the notable rarity. She recalls the reaction people got when that _manwhore_ proudly displayed his new purchase. With a smirk, she checks the box. Well, guess what, two can play at this game.

Sakura makes it past the physical section. Cracking her knuckles, she readies to tackle the personality and talent part.

Intelligent. Oh yeah, waaay intelligent. For a girl of her mental caliber, she's done settling for average joe _schmucks_. Oh, and cultured and sophisticated too. Gentlemanly. Sensitive and sensible. The amount of frustration she had to endure from his astonishing obliviousness... who knows how many years that shaved off her life. Reserved is also a must. Only thing worst than an ignorant hick is an _opinionated_ ignorant hick.

Speaking of which! Where is that humble button. No more attention-seeking, self-righteous egotists who think the world owes them acknowledgement. Instead, give her a man who will pay attention _to_ _her_. And when she says something is a bad idea, his first instinct is to, you know, _listen_.

Oh, and compromising. Selfless. Looking back on it, Sakura realizes her entire end of the relationship was one of give and give. Move to city? Fine, she hugged her parents, packed her bags, and switched jobs. Crazy work hours? Fine, she endured his late night calls, opting for earplugs and the good old head-under-pillow technique. Nonstop travel with his editor? Fine, she waited at home like a good girl. Not like she had anything _else_ to do with her life. Whatever made him _happy_.

Whereas him, nope, his mind is set. His ideals come first. His job and duty come first. His passions come first. _He always comes first_.

Yeah, she went there. And on the topic of sex...

By the time Sakura completes the talent section - three musical instruments, four foreign languages, two martial arts, and complete mastery of select technical skills - she is already feeling much better. She makes one final review of her perfect man, then hits submit.

To her confusion, a message appears on her screen.

 _Your order has requirements that cannot be fulfilled by the XR-214 model. Specifically, component(s) BH23-P1 are special edition features which require additional bifrontal upgrades of the cerebral cortex. A premium version is available..._

Her eyes scan across the text. From what she can tell, she has made her order too… smart? Physical characteristics are easy to synthesize, but intelligence, at least the type Sakura is demanding, is a rare commodity. It'll cost her extra. A _lot_ more extra.

Sakura pouts. But she's already spent so much time filling out this ridiculously long form! Also, what's wrong with a little splurging. Goody-two-shoes Sakura _never_ splurges on herself. It's about time she does.

Besides, what if she's in the grocery store, and Naruto happens to catch her there, and finds out that after all this time she's still single and-

Nope! NOPE! That mofo is _not_ catching her single.

With that, she taps the ACCEPT button. A obligatory thank you page pops up, alongside an Amazon notification that her order will be delivered to her apartment in two to three days.

.

By the time Sakura feels the deep-seated regret of her impulse buy, it is already too late.

A cardboard box has been unloaded to her front door, incriminating enough in size that she scrambles to push it inside before her neighbors notice.

"Fuck," she mumbles, pinching her nose. The box lies spread across her living room, occupying the floor space her coffee table once had.

When she was behind a tablet screen, everything seemed so normal. So safe. Only until this physical… _bulk_ appears before her does the gravity of her situation sink in.

She ordered a sex bot.

Gods, what is wrong with her. After all her bashing of the artificial industry, this makes her an even bigger hypocrite than Naruto.

Did she mention, _she ordered a sex_ _bot_.

Then again, maybe it's because she has never done anything this reckless before, this adventurous or deviant - besides dating a loser, a loser all her friends and family disapproved of, gods, she should have listened to Ino, why didn't she listen to Ino - that she's a bit… curious.

It's already delivered, she reasons. Might as well take a peek. After all, she's got a three-months return policy.

With that, she fetches the box cutter. After some struggle, the cardboard is peeled away to reveal a coffin-like container.

Sakura yanks aside the lid and…

Weird.

The whole experience is beyond weird, as Sakura sinks down onto her couch. There's a random guy sleeping in the middle of her living room. A random guy that she bought with her credit card.

She can't even imagine how she would start a conversation. Hey, um, so where you from? A factory in Bangalore? Oh cool, me too! Listen, I know we just met, but about that kink I programmed into you, yeah, sorry, just... sorry.

Her gaze falls to the manual, and her spirits lighten. Manual! Sakura likes manuals. They tell her how to do things.

Step one, activation.

 _The ART companion is activated through touch. This will create the first node of consciousness. The part of the body you touch, as well as the part of your body you use to touch, will signal the type of companionship of which you seek. It is okay to change your mind later on; this is only an impression to facilitate communication in initial stages._

Okay, easy enough.

Kneeling down, Sakura peeks into the coffin. The sex bot- she stops herself. The _guy_ , she mentally corrects, is, well, he's kinda attractive. Okay, _really_ attractive. Dreamy. Almost like an angel, given the white shirt they clothed him in, the fabric a little too sheer and buttons popped a little too low. Modest, but not modest enough. The data system must have already discerned her taste and customized the package to suit it.

She leans down and gives a kiss to the lips. She expects cold, like of a machine or corpse. To her pleasant surprise, the contact turns out to be warm, exciting even, sending a delightful tingle down her toes.

Step two, registration.

 _The ART companion is registered when it is assigned a name. You may choose a name of your own, or let one be determined for you._

As she finishes the paragraph, she sees from her peripheral that the guy has awaken. He tries to shift upright, massaging his temple. Then, seemingly to have noticed her presence, he gives a small, if not slightly pained, smile. "Hello."

Sakura forgets to close her mouth. "H-hi."

His eyes wander across her living room before locking on her again, deep and inquiring and… _red_ , a kaleidoscope of amber and gold, saffron and wine.

Sakura shakes her head. "I'm sorry?"

The corner of his lips pull in a quirk. "I asked, do you happen to know my name, miss?"

Oh right! The manual. Name. Need name. "Ah, err…" Think, Sakura, think!

Bob. Frank? Alfredo! Wait, that's a sauce. Okay, not sexy. Think sexy, hot, _spicy_ … Sriracha?

Oh fuck it. "Sorry, don't know." She'll leave this one up to the fates. She's never had a great naming history anyway, starting with Mr. Rocky the pet rock in fifth grade. "You don't remember your, ah, old one?"

He pauses, as if considering her words. Then, "I believe I am called Itachi."

Itachi. Okay, that works, especially when he says it with that melting accent of his.

Sensing her approval, he smiles, arms propped against the edge of the coffin. "And what may I call you?"

"Oh, ah, me? Sakura." Sakura laughs nervously, wondering why she's getting nervous. It's not like this is a job interview. He's just some machinery. An appliance! Nothing more than a laundry machine or a toaster or… or some other appliance contraption thing… with really gorgeous eyes... beautiful, hypnotizing eyes, the way he is staring at her, regarding her with such intensity and human-like intrigue. And is it just her, but when did the distance between them disappear, because she can feel his breath and-

"Pleased to meet you, Sakura," he whispers.

The manual in her hand drops.

.

"Ah, and this is your room," Sakura awkwardly ends the apartment tour. "Bathroom's in the back."

With that, she bolts for her own bedroom, careful to avoid his gaze. To avoid any part of his body actually, at least until she can sort out these weird bubbly feelings in her stomach and… elsewhere.

And the best way to sort things out is with good, diligent reading, of course!

Sakura sits cross-legged in bed, flipping through the abandoned manual. She stops at the section on touch, going through the list until she hits lip-to-lip contact. That yields another three pages.

 _The slow burn. This is distinguished from courtly love (4b) in that actions are geared towards maintaining a controlled level of emotional intensity and desire as opposed to entertainment (i2), wonder (i14), or flattery (i34). This is also distinguished from infatuation (1a) or limerence (12h), in that the source of uncertainty is internal as opposed to circumstantial, and eventual fulfillment is expected. High commitment, high reward. Good for personalities with patience_.

Sakura lowers the manual. You know what, nevermind. Too weird. Too, too weird.

She flips to the very back.

 _Deactivation._

After reading the passage, she groans. Really? The only way to deactivate the guy is through a _breakup_? Whatever happened to the good old days when you just push a power button?

Great. Now she has to practice a speech for tomorrow, find some non-awkward way to let the guy down. With that, Sakura tosses the manual aside in favor of her toothbrush.

She has just finished changing clothes when her eyes land on her bedroom door. After a moment's hesitation, she clicks the lock close. After an another hesitation, she leaves the lock in place, then crawls to bed.

The next morning, Sakura is groggily reaching for her kettle when she notices there is another hand attached to it, as well as the general addition of another person in her kitchen.

"Oh fu-"

She collects herself, as memories of last night resurface. To Itachi, she forces a smile, big enough to be caricature, in desperate hope that such charm may distract him from her obvious distress. That, and the oversized, bright-pink Aristocats pajamas she's got on, because hello, she's supposed to be a post-breakup mess. Men, social interaction, _what_?

"Good morning," Itachi greets. His tone is feather-light and simple, as if they have known each other their entire lives, bad breakups and Aristocats pajamas included. Which is… surprisingly refreshing.

Sakura accepts his offer of the kettle, only to realize it is already full. Earl Grey.

Did she even own tea? Oh yeah, there's that time she bought a box from one of those trendy hipster chains. And it was in her purse, and then it got relocated into the Narnia of one of these cupboards. She was probably keeping it for some one-time diet fad that she, haha, never bothered with again.

But now the tea is in her kettle. Where it belongs. Look at that!

Itachi leans against the counter, a mug of his own in hand. "Sleep well?"

"Alright. You?"

"Had better."

"Bad mattress?" Sakura squeaks, poked by an inkling of guilt. The guest room hasn't been exactly maintained. Nor the sheets exactly washed. For a whole winter, the room was occupied by Kiba. Kiba needed a place to crash during his job hunt, and let's just say, he isn't the most well-kempt individual.

Or, in less diplomatic terms, he reeks of wet dog. He reeks of wet beer. He reeks of wet desperation. He's a bigger mess than Sakura is or ever will be, and the only reason she even let him stay is their unbreakable bond of friendship… that never existed. Because they were never friends.

Guess who Kiba is actually friends with! The wonderful friendly friend who was more than eager to give away a room of her apartment without, oh you know, _first asking the owner of said apartment._

Her mental tirade is broken by a chuckle. Itachi sets down his mug. "... and you didn't catch any of that, did you."

Sakura blinks. Then, sheepishly, "Sorry, you were talking?"

"The bed is fine. The room is lovely," he summarizes with a smile. "In fact…" He runs his thumb over the handle of the mug, before his gaze catches hers. "I wanted to ask if I could rent it."

"Rent it," Sakura repeats, a little too emphatically.

"To alleviate the financial burden of you having me." His smile turns gentle, and his next question is a straightforward one. "You don't want me, do you, Sakura?"

"I-" Caught, Sakura drops her shoulders. "Sorry."

She tries to form some sort of coherent explanation, some it's-not-you-it's-me type of deal, but the words are caught in her throat. Maybe because she understands there's no way to frame it in any way that's less hurtful than it innately is. Trying to do so would only turn their conversation fake.

It seems her worries are for null though. Itachi does not appear offended. Or if he is, he hides it terribly well, giving only a hum of agreement.

"We all do some impulsive things," he says. There is a pause, as if he is considering a thought. He returns resolved. "So here's mine. You know about the return policy?"

"Three months?"

"I'll pay you three months rent, three times above market price. Any time during that period, you are free to tell me to leave. Or you can say nothing, and I will leave on my own accord at the end of the third month. Or…"

Sakura finds herself looking up into his eyes, and discovers they are even clearer and deeper in natural lighting. He looks breathtaking, the play of shadows and lights against his features magazine perfect. So perfect that in the back of her mind, Sakura has to wonder if he did that intentionally. If throughout their conversation he has been choreographing their steps until they are both standing inside a Hollywood shot, within a proximity of each other that is too far to be intimate but way too close to be anything short of a tease.

"Or... at the end of the three months, you decide you like my presence, and ask me to stay."

His aura is _unreal_. Her knees are on the verge of collapse, and Sakura is cursing at herself for maybe overdoing it with her order, because that level of charisma has got to be illegal.

"Wow, you're really trying to sell me on this, aren't you?" she laughs weakly.

"I am." His gaze falls on the table. Her gaze follows his.

Sakura is babbling at what has been prepared on it, the arrangement of colors and shapes that belongs less to her kitchen and more to a banquet hall on the sailing Titanic.

She takes a strawberry by its stem, gaping at the elegant swirls of golden honey and dark dark chocolate. That's it. Her wallet is fucked. That refund ain't ever coming back.

But for the sake of formality, she asks again, "Three months?"

"If you will allow."

.

No matter how Sakura calculates, Itachi's proposal puts her finances in the green. His payment will recover her lost interest, plus compensate her for room and board. Which is more than Kiba ever did, or her lousy ex for all that matters.

In fact, she finds herself running a surplus. She is literally being paid to have a sinfully hot roommate cook and clean for her. Gods, there _has_ to be a catch!

But until she finds the loophole, she is going to give herself a congratulatory pat on the back for including master chef skills on her order form. Another bite of halibut, and she sinks in her chair, moaning, toes dancing in ecstasy. Oh, and she has not even gotten to the _risotto_.

Finally, the last of her skepticism is withered dry in the form of a knock. She opens the door to see Itachi has safely escaped the blizzard outside, working to free himself of his gloves and scarf. Just as Sakura readies to ask where he's been, he produces an envelope.

"What's this?"

He seems amused by her confusion. "First month's rent."

Sakura unfolds the check inside. She doesn't believe it, looking up. "It's only been a week!"

"A week late, my apologies."

"You found a job in one week," Sakura deadpans. She reconfirms the figure. "And they gave you this much upfront?" She flips the check over to show him, as if he isn't aware.

"I had a few offers," Itachi says dismissively. "This one had the hours that I believed would be most agreeable."

She doesn't believe him. No one can have their shit together that well. This is probably blood money, like the mafia or… or drugs!

As if catching onto her train of thought, Itachi chuckles. "If you have any doubts, my code is online. Work registration, document status, anything you wish know about me will be there." He leans in closer. "And anything you wish me to know about you… well, I would be delighted to get to know you, Sakura."

With that, he gives her one last smile, then leaves for the guest shower.

The money is still in her hands, yet Sakura isn't looking at it. She cannot look at anything but him. She cannot hear anything but him. The door has closed, but he is in her mind, replayed again and again like the favorite scene of a movie, the subtleties in his expression and the depth in his eyes, the harmony of his voice as he says her name.

And on each replay, Sakura finds herself pulled deeper and deeper into a type of euphoria she has not experienced since her teenage years, back when she taped pictures of her favorite boy band hottie all over her lockers. A type of euphoria that tints her cheeks and flutters her heart. A type of euphoria untainted by judgment and shame, rules and games, the return to a time of simplicity.

The return to a time of innocence.

.

"I was born in Springfield."

"Massachusetts?"

"Missouri."

"Ah."

Sakura finds eye contact hard, opting for full attention on the chopping knife her hands instead. "I, ah, did visit the one in Massachusetts back in my college years though. My friends and I did this road trip, and I bought all these Dr. Seuss souvenirs." She nodded to one of magnets on her refrigerator, her smile deepening. " _Mulberry Street_ was my favorite childhood book."

"I read plenty of Silverstein."

Sakura laughed. "Same. I checked out _Where the Sidewalk Ends_ eight times at my local library. My last time, I scribbled down all the poems onto these highlighter index cards so I could tape them onto my wall. Did you have a favorite poem of his?"

Itachi turned off the faucet, as if to think carefully over the question. " _The Giving Tree_ ," he says finally.

"Oh." Her hand slowed. "That's a sad one. I remember crying a lot, and I remember... well, I remember hating it a lot too. Especially the boy." She growls at the memory.

"Sadness isn't precisely how I would describe my reaction. Or anger," he adds with a chuckle.

"Happy?"

"No. Just… trapped." His voice quiets, as does his movements, but he recovers. "Is the garlic ready?"

Sakura remembers to stop chopping. She blinks at the pile before her, a clumsy mess of uneven shapes and sizes, one clove still intact. She presents her offering with a sheepish look, and is relieved by the lack of judgment on Itachi's part. He appears more amused than anything, and his tone is just as gentle.

"They say the knife work is the hardest part." He pauses before her, palm open for permission. "May I?"

"Oh thank god, please." She waves the knife, a little too fast. Had Itachi any slower reflexes, their dinner may just be together at the hospital.

Sakura cringes. Cooking is not her forte. Naruto learned to duck and dodge whenever she was on one of her culinary attempts. He was even better at disappearing when it came time to eat.

But before she could excuse herself out of the kitchen, a hand has enclosed around hers. Her heart rate spikes at the sudden closeness between, a narrow strip of space between her back and his chest. His hold is surprisingly strong and steady as he guides her hand, the blade in a smooth rhythm against the board.

With a final scrape, it is done, delicate pyramids of all colors before them. Sakura stares with admiration, lost enough in the work that she fails to realize Itachi's hand has already left hers.

"Now that wasn't so bad, was it," he says.

"No," she whispers. Her smile returns, wider now and more open, softened by a blush that is blossoming like a flower in spring. "That really wasn't."


End file.
